


From the Voice of God

by ryssabeth



Series: Metropolitan Art [6]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Homeless Character, M/M, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 12:59:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryssabeth/pseuds/ryssabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is breathless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From the Voice of God

Saturday finds Grantaire milling about in a crowd of people—a surprisingly large and decidedly irritated crowd of people—before the Parliament building (the closest thing Paris has to an official capitol building), whispering and hissing bitterly about the new legislation (which, technically, has no effect on Grantaire—he has nothing to tax, nothing to repossess, nothing really at all), heads close together, waiting for something to give way underneath the tension.

A hand at the small of his back gets his attention and he finds Eponine next to him, looking just as tired as she always does. “Found Gavroche a sitter?”

“I told him to stay home—this won’t take all day. Never been to a protest before?” Eponine smiles and a year or two drops away from her face. “Though I’m sure if you had been, I would have been able to spot you in that _ridiculous_ hat you insist on wearing.”

“Never had much to protest,” Grantaire replies (and this is true—why protest against things that are entirely your fault?), “and must you insult my hat? It’s comfortable and an identifying characteristic. You wouldn’t be able to spot me without it.”

Eponine pats his shoulder with a gentleness she doesn’t often show him, “that’s entirely untrue.” She’s going to say something else, Grantaire can tell by the tilt of her lips, but just then the Sun opens up from behind the clouds—and, if Grantaire deigned to believe in God, this would be a sign, he thinks, as Enjolras ascends the steps to the Parliament building, the light catching on his curls, being held there by a force that Grantaire doesn’t understand.

“Wow,” he whispers, hooking his thumbs in his beltloops, “ _wow_.”

“Stop ogling. This is a _protest_.”

“It is unjust,” Grantaire murmurs, “that such a person can exist on the same plane as a person like me. That is something worth protesting, I think.” Eponine’s eyes roll to the side, and he continues, “but you know what else is unjust? That I am here on a Saturday—today is a park day. I have happy people to meet.”

She shoves him, “you made _this_ decision on your own.”

(Oh, yes, entirely—but that doesn’t necessarily mean he _wants_ to be here.)

The crowd stills—they know when the gods descend it is their duty to heed the words. Or, at the very least, when they _think_ a god as descended, it is in their best interest to silence themselves. The impressive part about this whole affair—besides Grantaire making good on his assurance that he would be here at all—is that when Enjolras starts speaking, his voice carries. No sound equipment, no _nothing_ except the power of his own vocal cords.

Grantaire stills—everywhere, everything in him, his heart included. And he listens.

“Everyone says the time of kings is over and done with,” echoes over the crowd in front of the Parliament building, “and yet here we are. None of us were around then, when taxes were taken to fill the coffers of our _beloved_ lords and ladies,” and the sarcasm sounds like a _slap_ and the crowd murmurs in tandem, resting upon Enjolras’ words. “But _this_ —what’s going on _now_ —is a _gross_ step back in the direction of monarchy, where the privileged few make their livings on the backs of those with less.”

( _That’s human nature_ , he says, intellectually. _That’s the desire of humanity to oppress._ But there is a part of him stirring under this speech—more a speech than a protest.

But protests always need a flashpoint.)

“This new tax legislation will reach into the pockets of the people,” and even at a yell, this sounds like a casual drop of fact, a conversation with a hundred-plus people. “And their fingers will stick with the funds you’ve earned and it will come to nothing. There will be no new innovations, no new roads, nothing to show for the money they’re going to _liberate_ from your hands. This is money that will be borrowed and never returned, an IOU left in an account that the rich can dip into, but will never find its way back to the people.”

( _Ridiculous!_ Parts of him shout. _How unfair!_

The rational part of him rolls its eyes, _you don’t need lords for tyrants to exist, you idiot_. And he means that in the fondest, most awe-inspired way possible.)

“And you going to _stand_ for this?” Righteous fury blazes in Enjolras’ body language, and his eyes are probably blazing, though it’s hard to tell from here. ( _Righteous fury is a good look on him_.) The crowd, murmuring only minutes before, roars—and that is a difficult feat to accomplish when there are only hundreds— _barely_ hundreds, though still sizable. “Have you elected your new _royal court?_ ”

Another roar rises up in the negative—and Grantaire is a part of it ( _I don’t even pay taxes! Stop, I don’t pay_ taxes!), along with Eponine, whose cheeks are darkening in inspiration and in rage. The crowd becomes a teeming sea of anger. And the protest as begun.

Enjolras, however, as disappeared into the crowd, though sunlight still glares down at where he had been standing, and someone starts a chant.

(Grantaire feels breathless, inspired, _angry_ —and this is terrifying.)

Eponine’s thin fingers press against his bones—and panic spreads out from the center of him. ( _Oh sweet Jesus_ , he presses his palm against his chest, _what sort of emissary can he even_ be?) A halo of blonde curls comes into view, and—yes, as expected—his eyes are bright with unchecked rage and passion. Grantaire feels his knees go weak.

“Eponine, Combeferre is looking for—you—Grantaire?” He blinks, the fury boiling down into surprise. “You honestly came to this?”

“What can I do to help?” ( _I bet he looks like that in bed._ )

Enjolras barks out a shocked laugh, “Pardon?”

“What. Can I do. To help?” He says slowly, over the chanting of the angry people, probably already feeling the greedy hands of government brushing the hems of their pockets.

“You don’t buy into anything about this. From what I understand of you, this is just the world turning, in your perspective.”

( _Yes, that’s true_.) He swallows. “Yeah—yes. But—“ Enjolras is in his element here, shifting and angling so no one bumps into him, his focus absolute—and that focus, for a moment, is on Grantaire. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t buy into the—the marketing of this proposal. Let me help you, Enjolras.”

(He wants to plug his nose for this, take the plunge with no dignity, feel the biting freeze of a _cause_.)

Enjolras holds out his hand then, and Grantaire feels the rush and burn of euphoria—after a particularly rough drink, an especially _intense_ bout of booze—as he takes it, shaking his hand once. “I suppose I’ll start seeing you after classes.”

“I suppose,” Grantaire agrees (and the lies gurgles like bile in his stomach, stewing), “that you will.”

He disappears into the people again, keeping the flames of righteous anger burning amongst the masses. (It feels like a much larger protest with the atmosphere he’s wrought). “What have you done?” Eponine asks, close to his ear. (His heartbeat almost drowns her out.) “You just signed away your life on a campus you haven’t seen in—“

“I know—I _know_ ,” Grantaire covers his face, shaking his head. “What have I done?”

“You’ve been caught, my friend.”

“More like,” he corrects, “I’ve fallen—I’ve been dragged—I—“ ( _I’ve seen an avenging angel, stretching his wings under the will of the Lord._ ) “I’m going to go watch Gavroche, for you, I—I have to go.”

She claps him on the back (there’s always been a lot of force in a body that small) and Grantaire breaks for it. It’s what he excels at—running and changing places, getting in and out of situations that make him uncomfortable, ducking into alley ways and whiskey bottles to avoid anything and everything he can.

(He doesn’t think he can get out of this—

He’s just signed his soul over to a messiah.

And— _shit­_ —he would do it again, if only to see Enjolras looking so thoroughly aflame as he had been today.)


End file.
